27. Mia
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mia
The first person I call the minute I get a chance is my mother. I don't even know why. Maybe because I'm panicking. Maybe because some small part of me still believes mothers are supposed to know what to do when the world falls apart.
She answers on the third ring. “Mia?”
“Hi, Mom.”
The second she hears my voice, she knows something is wrong. “Mia, what happened?”
My grip tightens around the phone. “I'm at the airport.”
A pause. “Why, what happened?”
I swallow hard and take a deep breath. “Mom, I need you to listen before you say anything.”
The silence on the other end immediately tells me that's exactly what she's not going to do. “Mia—”
“Please.”
“Okay.”
I look out at the terminal. There are people walking, talking to each other, dragging their suitcases.
Living normal lives while mine feels like it's splitting apart.
“So, the soldier—” My mother's sigh is immediate.
The soldier. As if George doesn't even have a name.
As if saying his name would somehow make this worse.
“What about him?”
I close my eyes. “He’s injured.”
The silence stretches. “Injured how?”
I pull the folded notice from my pocket.
My hands are still shaking. “I don’t know.
I mean the notice says severe injuries.” The words sound unreal.
Like I'm reading someone else's story. “Multiple internal trauma, something like that.” My voice cracks. I can’t even read the fucking paper.
“Mom, they don't know if he's going to make it.”
The silence that follows feels different.
“Oh, honey.” She says, sounding really worried.
Tears immediately sting my eyes. “He has nobody.” The words tumble out. “He doesn't have family.” My mother doesn't respond. I continue anyway. “They sent the notice to the apartment because there wasn't anyone to send it to.”
“Mia.”
“I have to go.”
The second I say it, I hear her inhale sharply. “Mia, no.”
The certainty in her voice startles me. I blink. “What do you mean no?”
“I mean exactly that. No.” The terminal suddenly feels louder, brighter, way more overwhelming than before. “You are talking about flying across the world for a man you've never met.”
My throat tightens. “I know, Mom, but—”
“No.” Her voice rises. “I don't think you do, Mia.” I look away from the crowd. Because part of me knows she's right, and I hate it. “You exchanged letters. That’s it. You don’t know this person.” The words aren't cruel. They're true, which is worse. “You don't know him.” She repeats.
“I do know him.”
“You don't.”
“Mom—”
“You know the version of him he chose to put on paper for you.” The sentence lands like a punch.
Because I've had that exact thought myself. At three in the morning. When I’m alone in my bed.
“You don't know how he treats waiters or how he acts when he's angry.” The knot in my throat grows tighter.
“You don't know what his laugh sounds like.”
God.
That one hurts.
Because she's right.
I don't.
And maybe I won’t ever know…
“You don't know if you would even like each other in person.” The truth settles heavily in my chest. I don't know.
I honestly don't know. And yet— “I know he matters to me, and I’m not debating that, not with you.” The words leave before I can stop them.
“Mia.” It sounds like a warning, like a plea, like a mother trying desperately to save her daughter from something she doesn't understand.
“You are grieving your breakup.” I physically flinch.
Because now we're getting to it. The thing everyone secretly thinks.
The thing I fear myself. “This man showed up during the worst period of your life.” She continues, and I grip the phone harder.
“He listened to you.” Tears gather in my eyes. “He made you feel less alone.”
I stare at the departure board. I look at all the cities, the countries, at all the flights, at my flight.
“That's not the same thing as love.” The words keep hitting hard because she thinks that's what this is. And maybe part of me fears it too. That I've confused loneliness with connection. That I've built something imaginary.
That I've fallen in love with a stranger.
“I know that.”
“Then don't go. Please don't get on that plane.” My chest aches. Because I understand her. If my future daughter called me with this story, I'd probably say the exact same thing. “You don't owe him this.”
The words hang between us. I don't owe him this; she's right. I don't. George never asked me to come. Never asked me for anything. Never expected this, and knowing him, he would never…Which somehow makes the decision harder.
“I know.”
“So come home.” I look toward my gate. Boarding begins in forty-two minutes.
“I can't.”
A long silence follows. Then my mother's voice softens. Into heartbreak. Into understanding. Into surrender. “Oh, Mia.”
The tears finally fall. “I can't let him be alone.”
My mother doesn't answer right away. Because I think she finally understands. Not the situation. Not George. Me. The daughter she raised. The woman who has always run toward people who are hurting instead of away from them. Eventually, she sighs. A tired, loving sigh. “Then be careful.”
I start crying harder. “I will.”
“And call me when you land.”
“I will.”
“And if something feels wrong, you leave.” A watery laugh escapes me. “Okay.”
“I still think you're crazy.”
I laugh through my tears. “I know.”
“But you've always had a terrible habit of following your heart.”
I smile despite everything. “Yeah.”
“I love you.”
My throat tightens. “I love you too.” When the call ends, I sit there for a moment. Breathing. Crying. Trying to pull myself together. Then my phone buzzes.
Lyann.
I answer immediately. I texted her what was going on, without much explanation. “Tell me you're not actually doing this.”
“I've already checked in, and I’m waiting for my flight to board.”
“Oh, my God.”
I can practically hear her pacing. “Mia.”
I laugh weakly. “What?”
“You're flying to another continent.”
“Technically two.”
“That wasn't helpful.” I smile. Because somehow Lyann can make me laugh even while my life is imploding.
“What if this is a mistake?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“Maybe it is.” The honesty surprises me. “Maybe you'll get there and realize this whole thing is insane.”
I stare at the floor. “Thanks.”
“You asked.” I roll my eyes and take a deep breath.
“But.”
The word stops me.
“But?”
Her voice softens. “You have spent months and months showing up for him.” Tears sting my eyes again.
“You listened.” I nod even though she can't see me.
“You cared.” Another nod. “You mattered to each other.” The knot in my throat returns.
And suddenly I remember every letter. Every story, every confession, every moment George trusted me with pieces of himself.
“People can argue whether it's real.” Lyann's voice grows steadier. “But only you know how you feel.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
“So trust that.” The words settle somewhere deep inside me. Not because they erase the fear. They don't. Not because they make sense. They don't. But because they sound true. “If your heart says go—” She pauses. Then finishes softly. “Go.”
The boarding announcement echoes through the terminal.
“Oh.” My stomach immediately twists.
Lyann hears the announcement. “That's your flight, isn't it?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring him home if you can.” The tears come instantly.
Because somehow that possibility hadn't fully hit me until now. Bring him home. She didn’t say to visit him or to meet him. She said, bring him home.
“I'll try.”
“I know you will.”
I stand slowly, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. The gate agent calls for boarding again. People begin lining up. And for the first time since I opened that notice, I stop wondering whether I'm making the right decision.
Maybe my mother is right, I don't know him. Maybe this whole thing is irrational, reckless, or even insane. But George is lying in a hospital somewhere on the other side of the world, and whether anyone understands it or not—I know exactly where I'm supposed to be.
So I wipe my eyes, take a shaky deep breath, and walk toward the gate.
The first flight is a couple of hours long, but I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don't do anything except sit frozen in my seat, staring at nothing. Which makes it feel way longer than it actually was.
Every time the plane shakes, I grip the armrest so hard my fingers ache. Every time the seatbelt sign dings, my heart drops into my stomach. Every time someone laughs, coughs, or shifts in their seat, my brain twists it into a scenario where I never get to see him.
To meet him.
To tell him I came.
I reread the notice once more: “Medically stabilized for now.” ‘For now’ feels like the cruelest phrase in the English language.
The window shows nothing except clouds, but I stare anyway, willing them to give me answers they don't have.
Time doesn't move between layovers. I walk circles around airport lounges because sitting feels impossible.
My legs shake so badly I drop my bag twice.
Every announcement over the intercom sounds like it's underwater.
At one point, I sit on a bench in a bathroom and bury my face in my hands, whispering, “Please be alive. Please, please, please be alive.” No one looks twice.
Airports are full of people falling apart quietly.
The second flight boards, and I get a window seat.
Every second I spend on that airplane feels too slow and too fast at the same time.
I think about telling Monica. I imagine the call.
“Hi, so remember me? I called about the letters. The man you broke up with might die, and we have been sort of talking, and I’m on my way to him. Want to hop on a plane?”
I shake my head hard.
She's not who he would want.
And God help me, I think maybe I am.